


Playing with Matches

by mtothedestiel



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, Business, Casual Sex, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Friends With Benefits, Humor, M/M, Matchmaking, Mutual Pining, Smut, workaholics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-15 18:49:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16069124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mtothedestiel/pseuds/mtothedestiel
Summary: A “Set it up” AU. Yuri and Otabek are two overworked PA’s who would like nothing more than to get out of work at a reasonable hour and the opportunity to have sex with anyone but each other (maybe not the second thing? It’s complicated). The only thing standing between them and a healthy work/life balance? Getting their workaholic bosses to fall in love.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all my readers old and new! This idea has been following me around for a while, and I had to get it written down. I have NOT abandoned any of my other current WIPs, I’m just trying to follow the inspiration where it takes me so that I can get back into the rhythm of writing again. 
> 
> Also, all characters are aged up in this fic. Yuri P. is 22, Otabek is 24, Victor is 33 and Yuuri K. is 30. I hope you enjoy! Please comment, share and subscribe if you like this story and want to hear more :D

“Victor Nikiforov’s office. ....I’m afraid he’s in a meeting, can I forward you to his voicemail? Absolutely sir, Mr. Nikiforov will get back to you as soon as he can.”

Yuri Plisetsky punches the extension before hanging up his phone in disgust. Desperate motherfuckers.

“That was Hugo Boss  _ again _ ,” he calls from his desk to Victor’s office, where his boss is definitely not in a meeting, “They’re still trying to get the November cover.” 

“You know I can’t hear you when you shout like a street vendor~” comes the reply. Yuri rolls his eyes but gets up anyway, grabbing a clipboard from his desk so he can at least pretend at professionalism before stepping into Victor’s office. Victor is perched elegantly behind one of the three pieces of furniture in his executive suite, always modeling the sleek minimalist style that kept him on the cover of magazines even now that he had stepped out of the limelight and into the cutthroat world of fashion publishing. Yuuri shifts on the plush throw rug in front of the desk until Victor deigns to look up from his Macbook with an expression of saint-like patience.

“You had something to tell me, Yura?” he asks, offering a paternal smile.

Yuri does his best not to grind his teeth.

_ This lunatic is your ticket to the big time, so keep it together, Plisetsky. You’ve only worked...eighty hours this week. So far. ...Ugh. _

“That was Andre from Hugo Boss, for the third time today,” he repeats, after a deep yogic breath like his therapist taught him, “They’re still after the pre-winter cover.” 

“And they’ll have it,” Victor replies, smile turning as sharp as the cut of his gray Armani suit, “When they develop an  _ actual _ sense of taste, or when I am dead, and thus no longer the editor of this publication. Which of those things do you think will come first, Yura?”

“...the latter?”

“Correct! Now, I do not want to hear that particular label mentioned aloud in this office again, are we clear?”

“Yes, Victor.”

“Wonderful,” Victor continues, “I can already feel the energy in the room improving. Now, what time is it, six-thirty?”

Yuri takes another deep breath. 

“It’s almost nine.”

“What?” Victor exclaims, “I had no idea it was so late! You should have said something!”

_ I had no intention of keeping you here so long! _ Yuri continues in his head, imagining Victor’s clipped accent vividly.  _ How rude of me to make you stay here with me when you no doubt have friends and family who would like to see you while it’s still daylight out! _

“You know I have to eat before seven fifty-five or it will throw off my electrolytes!” Victor continues in the real world, “It’s crucial to my productivity! This could endanger our entire issue timeline!”

“My mistake. Should I order your dinner now, then?” Yuri asks, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He’s long become accustomed to Victor’s bizarre and mercurial dietary regimens.

“No, Yura, let me starve, and hope the magazine can just run without me when I have to spend the next week on retreat with my nutritionist to get my vitamin B twelve levels stabilized.”

“So yes to dinner, then.”

“Yes, thank you,” Victor declares, “Get me that thing I had last week at that place with the rude hostess. There was fish involved.”

Of course.

“Of course,” Yuri replies, “Can I help you with anything else, Victor?” 

~

“Thank you, Kurosawa-san. Rest assured the Katsuki Corporation is making this project priority number one.”

Katsuki Yuuri speaks in a smooth, low tone, every inch the CEO’s son in his neat black suit, a deep blue pocket square the perfect conservative but contemporary touch. Only Otabek can see the fine tremor starting up in his boss’ fingers. 

“No, no, thank  _ you _ , Katsuki-san. I look forward to a collaboration that will benefit both our companies.”

Otabek bows in time with his boss, his arms at his sides as Mr. Katsuki finishes exchanging pleasantries with the Tokyo executives on the other end of the video conference. He ignores the ache in his back, holding the bow until their business partners return the salutation and the screen goes black, signalling the end of their  _ four hour conference _ .

Even Otabek had difficulties remaining stone-faced for that long. They’ve worked right through quitting time (again), not to mention dinner. Otabek has hopes of one day eating hot (take out) food again instead of the sad stash of meal bars he keeps in his desk. 

Tonight could be the night. The halal place near his apartment doesn’t close til midnight, and it’s only...eight forty-five. Otabek could still make the commute back to Brooklyn once he gets Katsuki through his post-conference routine.  

Speaking of.

“Congratulations, Mr. Katsuki,” he says, pulling his thoughts from chicken and rice with yogurt sauce. 

“Thank you Otabek,” Katsuki replies, trembling as he gathers up his folders, “Though the praise should of course go to the whole New York office, certainly not j-just me—”

Katsuki drops his pen, and it hits the smooth tile floor with a clatter. After several months of practice Otabek recognizes his moment to intervene.

“I’ve got it, sir,” Otabek assures him, bending to retrieve the errant writing utensil, “Would you like to take some tea in your office? I’ll need a few minute to organize my notes for your review.”

Katsuki’s white knuckled grip on the folders eases.

“Yes, I’ll do that,” he says, then a pause, “Would you bring me my personal attache as well, please.”

“Right away, sir.” 

Otabek follows his boss from the conference room back to his executive office, stopping at his own desk to start the digital kettle and retrieve the small leather toiletries bag that contains, among a few other amenities, Katsuki’s anxiety medication.

The kettle beeps when it reaches one hundred and sixty Fahrenheit. Otabek warms a small tea pot by swirling some of the near-boiling water in it before adding the leaves of Katsuki’s preferred blend of genmaicha. He fills the pot to steep and sets in on a tray beside a single handleless tea cup and Katsuki’s leather attaché. With all necessary supplies in hand, Otabek knocks on the door to his boss’ executive office.

“Come in.”

Katsuki already looks more relaxed as Otabek places the tea set in front of him, along with the case containing his medication. He looks like he might have splashed some water on his face, and he has a wireless earbud in one ear that Otabek knows is playing the sound of Hasetsu’s ocean. The young CEO already has his laptop open, scrolling through the data their new business partners just shared with them.

“Thank you, Otabek,” Katsuki says as Otabek pours his first cup of tea.

“Should I call your car, sir?” Otabek offers, “I could have my notes ready for your ride home.”

“No, no, I can’t leave yet,” Katsuki replies without looking up, “The market opens in Tokyo in two hours, and I have all these reports from Kurosawa to double check in the meantime. An error would be a terrible embarrassment to the company.”

“Of course,” Otabek replies, resigning himself to the desk drawer meal bar after all.

“Is there anything I can assist you with?”

Almost three hours later and Otabek  _ finally  _ finds himself on the sidewalk outside of Katsuki Corp.’s New York offices. He watches the taillights of Katsuki’s town car vanish into late night traffic when he feels a buzz in his pocket. Otabek pulls out his phone to find a message from a familiar contact.

**Plisetsky** : Ugh, the old man just let me out. Good thing it’s only eleven-thirty.

Otabek almost smiles. 

**You** : Same.

**You** : Anything I can do?

**Plisetsky** : ...

**Plisetsky** : You know what you can do.

Otabek fires off one more message then waves for a cab. 

The night is finally looking up.

**You** : Your place or mine?

~

“God, ugh,  _ fuck,  _ Beka, right there—“

The cheap innerspring mattress creaks dangerously as Yuri fucks himself down onto Beka’s cock in an urgent rhythm. His knuckles are white where he’s gripping the headboard, and his thighs burn as he rides for everything he’s worth. Otabek, never exactly a talker in bed, urges Yuri on with the occasional soft grunt and a deathgrip on Yuri’s hips. Yuri doesn’t begrudge him his silence. The quick, muffled  _ thump thump thump _ of Beka’s padded headboard against the wall and the distinct absence of Victor Nikiforov’s syrupy, demanding voice is all the soundtrack Yuri needs.

_ I earned this dick _ , Yuri thinks to himself as he takes Beka’s cock so deep he can almost taste it,  _ Eighty-six fucking hours on the clock this week, the least I can get out of it is a good hard after hours fuck—  _

“Fuck, you’re tight,” Beka bites out, guiding Yuri down harder onto his cock, “It’s fucking good, Yura.”

“Glad you’re enjoying yourself,” Yuri says, voice dry as he clenches pointedly, “You feel like contributing at all, here, asshole?”

“Well, since you asked so  _ nicely—“ _

Yuri yelps as he’s flipped on his back. Beka’s grin is more than a little smug before he really starts pounding and all Yuri can do is wail  _ yes yes, right there, right  _ there—

Yuri gets a grip on himself and jerks in time with Beka’s thrusts until he comes all over himself (and damn it he should have taken his shirt off that’s going to  _ stain).  _ He rides out the aftershocks until Beka gets his, practically grinding Yuri into the mattress until he stutters to an orgasm with that stupid (cute) punched out look on his face.

“Mm...nice,” Beka rumbles once his eyes uncross.

_ Wow. So articulate. You’ve got great taste, Plisetsky. _

“Alright, alright, get out of me,” Yuri demands without any real heat, orgasm finally reminding him how exhausted he is after the bullshit week he’s had. Beka gives one more lazy thrust and slaps a wet kiss to the underside of Yuri’s jaw before obediently pulling out. Yuri shudders through his least favorite aspect of bottoming while Otabek ties off the condom and plucks their boxers off the floor. 

“You want to stay?” Beka offers, as always, “I’ve got clean sheets, and you can use my shower.”

“I’ll take the shower, but Potya’s waiting for me at home,” Yuri says, as always, getting up to gather the wrinkled remains of his only good navy blue suit. He’s gonna have to make time for the dry cleaner this weekend.

Otabek just shrugs, as always.

“Suit yourself.” 

Otabek calls him an Uber while Yuri speed cleans in the tiny stall shower. He doesn’t bother with much besides getting the come off his chest and rinsing off the worst of the sweat, even though Beka’s shampoo is a tempting prospect where it sits on the narrow shelf brushing Yuri’s elbow. He doesn’t need his hair to smell like Beka’s mint and musk, he needs his four step salon treatment that he pays through the nose for. It, and his cat, are currently waiting for him at his  _ own apartment _ . 

With that to motivate him It’s only a few minutes before Yuri is back in his rumpled suit, saying what passes for an affectionate goodbye between him and Otabek. 

“Message you tomorrow?”

“Sure thing.” 

There’s a slightly awkward hug. Beka presses a kiss to the side of Yuri’s head (not his mouth). Yuri sneaks one good squeeze of Beka’s firm as hell pecs, which earns him a dry look. Then Yuri’s down three flights of stairs and into the backseat of a nondescript gold sedan with the Uber sticker in the window, alone again with only...ugh... _ seven hours _ until he has to be back at the office.

Worth it to get laid, though. Yuri leans his head against the seat rest and enjoys the post coital ache before it just turns into straight up being sore. 

Beka might be kind of an asshole, but he gets the late hours and he’s a pretty spectacular fuck so Yuri makes do. They both know it isn’t going anywhere. In six months he and Beka will both be out of personal assistant hell and onto bigger and better things. Otabek won’t have time for him when he’s a big shot financial executive. Yuri won’t have time for Otabek when he’s a globe trotting fashion journalist. 

In the meantime, this is a good set up. 

(Yuri doesn’t have  _ time _ to think of how much better a set up they could have.)


	2. Chapter 2

This is how it starts (the Yuri and Beka thing):

“No, no,  _ no _ ! You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”

“Sorry, sir, it’s cash only.”

Yuri is pretty sure he’s about to get fired. First of all, because he is going to fail the  _ asininely _ simple task of ordering his boss’ dinner. Second of all, because he is about to  _ murder _ this deliveryman, who is currently holding Victor Nikiforov’s Vitamin K Rich Hold the Red Onion With Extra Chicken But Not  _ Too _ Much Extra Yura And Make Sure It’s the Poppyseed Dressing I Like Chef’s Salad hostage, all over something as idiotic as  _ restaurant policy _ . 

“I’ve ordered from you guys three times this week you know I’m good for it,” Yuri exclaims, trying to keep his voice at a reasonable shout so he doesn’t draw the attention of every single person in the lobby, “I can call in my card, or write you a check—”

“Cash only,” the delivery guy repeats firmly. 

Yuri’s shit night is  _ not  _ improved by the rapid approach of footsteps behind him. The guy wearing one of the least interesting suits Yuri has ever had to look at doesn’t rush past but stops and actually butts in to ask— 

“What is that?”

Yuri can’t fucking believe—

“What does it look like, dumbas—” 

“One Chef Salad, extra chicken, and one side Caeser, hold the croutons,” the delivery man says, as if it’s somehow this stranger’s business.  

The stranger in question perks up, a glint in his gray eyes despite the flatness of his expression

“Who’s is it?”

“It’s mine!” 

Yuri turns the most threatening glare he can muster on the delivery man. 

“Don’t you  _ dare—” _

“Buddy, if you’ve got twenty-nine fifty its all yours,” says the delivery man in the ultimate act of betrayal.

“Oh my god, you absolute piece of—”

“Done.”

Yuri’s tirade is rudely cut off as the stranger nearly smacks him in the face in his rush to give the delivery guy a handful of cash. 

“Keep the change.”

Without so much as a glance at Yuri the delivery guy surrenders the salads to this usurper, who turns on his heel and makes for the elevator. 

“I won’t forget this,” Yuri hisses at the traitor before hurrying to catch up with his new worst enemy. Luckily he’s still waiting on the elevator to make its way down from the fifteenth floor.

“Okay, I know we got off on the wrong foot, but that’s my boss’ dinner,” Yuri pleads, actually trying to be  _ nice.  _

“Actually, it’s  _ my  _ boss’ dinner now.”

“He’s gonna kill me if I don’t have that food!” Yuri insists, “And possibly go into a Vitamin D drop or whatever—”

“You should carry cash, then,” is all the stranger says in reply, and what kind of  _ asshole—  _

“You’re a stone cold schmuck, you know that?” Yuri shouts as the elevator doors open with a  _ ding _ .

“I’ve been informed by several ex-girlfriends, yes,” the asshole replies. He boards the elevator, making a big show of pressing the “close doors” button several times, but Yuri isn’t about to be stopped that easily.  

“Okay, okay, listen,” Yuri continues, sliding in the six inch gap much to the stranger’s chagrin, “It’s my first week on the job and I already can’t do anything fucking right. If Victor doesn’t get his damned salad I’m going to get fired.”

The stranger in the dull suit (seriously, where did this guy work, accounting?) sighs deeply before shaking his head.

“It’s my first week too,” he admits, voice a low rumble in the close space of the elevator, “I tried to call my order in too late.”

Yuri winces. “Your first fuck-up?”

The stranger nods. “My boss has meds he can’t take if he hasn’t eaten.” 

“Okay, yeah, that’s a big fuck up. We can work this out, though,” Yuri says, thinking quickly, “Here, give me the bag—“

“What? No—“ 

“Listen, asshole, there’s  _ two  _ salads in here,” Yuri continues, sitting down on the floor of the elevator to pull out the two high end take out containers. Lucky for them wherever the fuck this guy worked was high up. “One’s Victor’s Vita-K spring mix bullshit, and the other one was for me. You can have that one.”

The stranger’s brow furrows. “I can’t give Katsuki a side salad—“

“No look, it’s fine, yeah?” Yuri says, popping the lids on both salads and opening one of the sets of silverware, “Victor always orders double chicken, then complains there’s too much and makes me take it off. I’ll just add that extra to the Caesar… _ ” _

Yuri makes the switch, adding the extra chicken to what was supposed to be his dinner (don’t think about that Plisetsky) before popping the lid back on and holding it up to What’s-his-name.

“One entree Caesar salad, guaranteed not to get you fired,” Yuri offers, “The dressing is really good, too. Not the bottled crap.”

There’s a beat of awkward silence, in which Yuri realizes he’s basically kneeling on the ground offering some random guy a salad like it’s an engagement ring. He flushes bright red as he scrambles to his feet. The stranger just looks at him, brow still furrowed.

“Do you want it or not?” Yuri demands, holding out the salad forcefully. With only slight hesitation the stranger accepts the container.

“Good. Okay. ...Thanks.” They finally reach this guy’s floor, and not a moment too soon.

“I’ll pay you back tomorrow,” Yuri says, “You know, for the cash downstairs.”

The guy still doesn’t fucking  _ say anything  _ as the doors open, apparently too busy just  _ looking  _ at Yuri’s face intensely. 

“What are you staring at, asshole?” Yuri demands.

“Pay me back with a drink tonight instead,” he says, then, with a pause, “...you could, I mean. Only if you want.”

“Huh?” Yuri replies, off his balance. Weren’t they just fighting? Now the dinner thief wants to do drinks? “Uh...sure?”

The aforementioned thief nods. Once.

“I’m Otabek,” he says.

“Yuri.”

_ Otabek _ pulls an honest to god business card out of his suit pocket and hands it over.  _ Otabek Altin, personal assistant to Katsuki Yuuri _ , it reads in smooth embossed font. Below his name and title is a phone number. 

“Text when you’re free,” Otabek says, “I’ll be here late.”

“Same.” Yuri says, still looking at the business card. He glances up just as the doors slide shut and it finally clicks that Otabek Altin, salad stealing aside, is kind of insanely hot.

_ Please don’t be straight _ , is the only coherent thought in Yuri’s head as he hits the button for his own office and picks Victor’s salad up off the floor.

~

Okay, so it turns out Otabek may be kind of an asshole but he isn’t a  _ total _ dick.

(It doesn’t hurt that he’s taken off that boring blazer and rolled up his sleeves, exposing some sculpted forearms that would make an Armani model jealous.)

“Do you want to get another one?” Otabek asks, leaning in close to be heard over the din of the club they’re drinking in. Yuri realizes in the process of telling Otabek every annoying thing about his job (Otabek is a good listener) Yuri has already finished a whole beer.

“Yeah, okay.”

Otabek accepts his empty glass and waves the bartender down for another round.

“You want to dance?” Otabek asks after they’ve both emptied a second pint. The lights have gotten dimmer and the music a lot louder since they sat down at the bar. Yuri is still betting even odds as to Otabek’s hopefully non-heterosexual status but this invitation definitely tips the odds in favor of having (finally) stumbled upon a fellow chaotic bi in a fucking skyscraper full of depressingly binary identities. After all, Yuri didn’t miss the  _ ex-girlfriends _ mention in the lobby but he also didn’t miss the way Otabek checked him out in the elevator so Yuri sends up a prayer that he’s reading this right and downs the last of his IPA. 

“Yeah, I sure fucking do,” Yuri replies, and he tugs Otabek out onto the crowded floor. The press of bodies doesn’t leave any room for awkwardness, and over the course of a song the space between them melts into a deep, dirty grind in time to the throbbing bass. 

Another song, and Yuri’s head rolls back onto Otabek’s shoulder. 

Another song, and Otabek’s hands are sliding under Yuri’s untucked shirt to thumb at his hip bones.

Another song, and Otabek’s grip slides lower, getting a hand on Yuri’s ass and  _ squeezing _ before he whispers in Yuri’s ear:

“Do you want to get out of here?” 

When Yuri tips his head up to look Otabek’s eyes are dark in the flashing lights of the club, his desire obvious. 

_ I knew it _ , Yuri thinks as he nods, a grin curling his lips.  _ Chaotic bisexual energy. _

“Let’s go.”

It’s twenty minutes in a cab (It’s always fucking twenty minutes in a cab in this city) then a three story climb up to Otabek’s clean but dated one-bedroom. 

“This place is fucking tiny,” Yuri declares. 

Otabek shrugs. “No roommates.” 

Yuri takes off his coat and throws it over the back of a chair. 

“Fair enough.”

With the pleasantries out of the way Otabek backs him up against the front door, tugging off his tie on the way there. Yuri pulls him in by the collar, hollow plywood at his back, and grins until Otabek kisses it off his mouth. 

And okay, holy  _ shit _ , Otabek knows what he’s doing with his tongue. Yuri lets Otabek slide his hands back under his shirt and coax him into a filthy, jaws wide, lips slick, tongue down your throat make out session. He tries to give as good as he gets, but Yuri’s man enough to admit when he’s just along for the ride and this is definitely Otabek’s show. Yuri’s cock throbs and he ruts his hips forward into Otabek’s with an embarrassing whine. 

If this is foreplay he might not survive the main event.

“Fuck, you’re hot,” he admits their mouths part with a slick  _ smack _ . Otabek’s lips barely twitch but Yuri is starting to figure out that may as well be a shit eating grin from him.

“Thanks.”

Yuri gets Otabek’s shirt undone, feeling up his chest and thumbing his nipples. Otabek gets his hand over the front of Yuri’s slacks, pressing the heel of his hand into Yuri’s rapidly hardening dick. 

“You’re gorgeous, too,” Otabek mumbles against Yuri’s lips, his palm working steadily between his legs.

“Yeah,  _ I  _ know,” Yuri bites back ( _ Damn it, _ he’s already panting for it. When was the last time he got any action?), “Are you gonna fuck me or what?”

Otabek’s response is a low, pleased hum, like Yuri just handed him a high end coffee sample. Like  _ since you offered, I think I might _ , which shouldn’t make Yuri so fucking hot but he’s practically clawing at Otabek’s back when he lifts him up and carries him through a pathetically tiny living room and into an equally cramped bedroom. There’s a mini symphony of squeaks and screeches when Yuri is deposited onto a full size mattress that must be an heirloom from at least 1970 but he doesn’t get the chance to make a smart comment because Otabek strips off his shirt and climbs on top of him and Yuri’s capacity for being a wiseass is now at zero.

“Let’s get these off,” Otabek requests, plucking at Yuri’s belt. Not a problem. Yuri shimmies out of his slim fit suit, awkwardly kicking off his shoes, while Otabek kneels over him with his fucking thick ass thighs. Said thighs flex as Otabek leans over to fish through a bedside drawer. Yuri spends some time meditating on the promise in that flex until he’s distracted by the bottle of lube dropped on the mattress along with a strip of condoms.

“Do you want to or should I?” Yuri asks, peeling off his black briefs and spreading his legs. He reaches for the lube but Otabek plucks it from his grip.

“I’ve got it.” 

“Got it” means Yuri doing his best to keep his brain from melting out his ears as Otabek works two fingers in his ass like a pro, trading gasps and groans in between seeing if he can turn the tables on the tongue-in-mouth front. It’s not a game he’s particularly playing to win, he muses as Otabek does something against his hard palate that makes Yuri mewl like a damn kitten.

After a few minutes Otabek breaks the kiss and leans back. Yuri pouts, but then Otabek presses hard in the right spot inside him and Yuri bites back his complaint. Eyes squeezed shut he hears a jingle, then the tug of a zipper, and a new slick sound of skin on skin. Yuri looks down, panting, and gets an eyeful of Otabek fisting his own cock, his dark gaze fixed on where he’s stretching Yuri open. 

There’s a lot there, but Yuri’s focus stays on Otabek’s dick, and how fucking  _ rideable  _ it looks. He clenches involuntarily around the fingers in his ass and it sends a shudder up his spine.

“Fuck, Beka, I’m good,” Yuri moans, “Get in me before I lose it.” 

Yuri is almost surprised when Otabek listens, withdrawing his fingers and reaching for a condom packet. No weird shit like “I’ll decide when you’re ready” or “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Just like that, huh?” he can’t help but comment, despite the fact that every second he doesn’t have Otabek’s dick in him is a mild form of torture. 

Otabek rolls on a condom. “You would know better than me,” he says, then looking down at Yuri sprawled on the bed, “How do you like it?”

Yuri considers this question and rolls onto his hands and knees. Tossing his hair, he glances over his shoulder and arches his back (he’s fucking proud of his arch, okay? All that ballet was good for something).

“Show me what you’ve got, Altin.” 

Otabek fucking shows him. They get past the whole burn and stretch part (objects in asshole may be Larger than they appear,  _ Jesus _ ) and Yuri’s body finally catches on to the awesomeness that is getting fucked just in time for Otabek to start putting his back into it.

“ _ Oh,  _ fuck yeah,” Yuri spits the first time the headboard hits the wall, “That’s it, more of that.”

“No problem.” Otabek braces one hand against the small of Yuri’s back and the squeaky orchestra that is this shit mattress now has a percussion section thanks to Ikea and Otabek’s fucking powerhouse thighs. Yuri gets a two handed grip on the slats of the headboard and holds on for dear life as Otabek rides him right into the sheets. 

Holy shit, there’s dick and then there’s  _ dick _ , and Yuri just struck the motherlode. He’s giving everything he’s got, but it’s less time than Yuri’s ego would like before he’s reduced to little more than a drooling mess against Otabek’s pillows. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna come,” Yuri mutters through clenched teeth as Otabek’s cock drags just right inside him. He goes to jerk himself off but Otabek gets there first, his palm slick with sweat and the wetness drooling out of Yuri’s cock. Otabek thumbs the head before getting a good grip and stroking him in time with his thrusts.  _ Slow. Slow. Fastfastfastfast— _

“ _ Shit _ .” Yuri’s head snaps back as his orgasm tears through him. He spits white all over Otabek’s hand and onto the sheets, pleasure tight in his balls and where he’s still stretched open around a thick cock. Otabek grunts behind him, fucking in fast and hard until he jerks to his own finish, his perfect rhythm breaking down to an irregular grind as he fills the condom. 

“You good?” Yuri slurs when Otabek’s grinding winds down to lazy hip circling and his ass is threatening him with twinges on the not fun side of overstimulated.

“Yeah.” Otabek slides his hand up Yuri’s back until he can nest his fingers in Yuri’s sweat damp hair. “Real good. Definitely. Nice.”

Okay, looks like someone gets a little sex dumb. Yuri can’t find it in him to be annoyed. It’s good to know Otabek isn’t dead serious  _ all  _ the time. 

They don’t bother with any cleanup that requires leaving the bed. Yuri wipes his cum off the sheets with a Kleenex that gets tossed across the room and Otabek finally kicks off his pants ( _ Those  _ are going to need to be dry cleaned) and then they both collapse back onto the rumpled sheets. 

Yuri’s blood is full of endorphins and his brain is full of undesirable questions. 

_ Better to make your exit now, Plisetsky. No muss no fuss. _

“I should probably—”

“Stay,” Otabek says, arms clumsy as he pulls Yuri close, “S’not worth waiting for the cab this late.”

“Oh. Okay.” That didn’t take much convincing. Yuri rolls onto Otabek’s chest and breathes in the sweat. It’s gross and awesome. Perfect smell to fall asleep to. Which is suddenly a very appealing prospect.

“That was a world class fuck, Beka,” he says with a yawn (and maybe sex makes Yuri a little stupid too, sue him), “Good job.”

“Thanks.” Then: “Beka, hm?”

Yuri frowns, tired of being awake and forming words. “Is that not okay?”

Otabek (Beka, now) just hums for like the fifth time tonight. 

“S’fine,” he says, sleepy, “S’what my friends call me.”

“Friends,” Yuri repeats, a sinking feeling in his gut, “Oh. Yeah.”

_ Right. _

_ Of course.  _

That’s the first time Yuri Plisetsky fucks Otabek Altin.

(It’s the first and  _ last _ time he stays the night.)

(In the morning they’ll agree to stay no strings attached.)

(It’s Yuri’s idea.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we'll get to the real plot eventually lol but these two really want to go at it. Thanks for reading and thanks for all the awesome comments! They inspire me to write more ;)


End file.
